en vogue
by nowabandoned
Summary: Soul Evans didn't really want to get back into the whole full-time designer debacle. He was fine with his position as head of Fashion and Layout for the magazine, Vogue, along with his annual "small" collection he released. Of course, when he runs into an under-the-radar model, college student, Maka Albarn, Soul finds that he may not have much of a choice. for the 2015 Resbang.
1. saw a picture of you

**a/n one:** **wow! this story has a lot fo pre-prepped chapters, but despite that, is still not finished. i'd like to thank my artist partner-in-crime, megan, for putting up with my dumb antics! this story was written for the 2015 Resbang, and will be updated on a weekly basis.**

* * *

 **one: saw a picture of you, hanging in an empty hallway**

* * *

Soul Evans, head of Fashion and Layout in world-renown fashion magazine, Vogue, cannot remember the last time he has been enamored with a model. Or noticed one in a way other than taking measurements, as a matter of fact.

Black*Star, his best friend, and head of Photography, wastes no time in pointing that fact out to a majority of the magazine staff present in the monthly meeting, when Soul casually asks about the emerald-eyed model girl. It's a typical Black*Star styled jest, and Soul has little patience for it.

"Kid, stop harping on me about model - designer relationships. Do you know who she is?" Soul slams his hands palm down onto the wooden surface of Kid's desk, sharp red eyes annoyed. He'd like to meet this model in person, realize that, like all other models he's met aside from Tsubaki, she's a snobby bitch. Then he can get back on track, and stop checking the magazine he first saw her in.

Kid stares back at Soul, meeting his glare with one in piercing amber. "Soul, you have to think about model - designer relationships. There are always disasters when we allow this sort of breach in code. That, and trying to track that model down is a breach in her privacy."

Soul rolls his eyes at Kid again, as the brunet examines a stack of paperwork on his desk, straightening them at a ninety degree angle. "If you can find out who this mystery model is, I will create a whole line - both male and female - for the first issue for the Fall/Winter season this year, Kid. And I will design a suit and gown duo if you still need one." He's not in the mood for Kid's uptight manner today. He wants to get over this model. Fast.

Kid leans forward, resting his elbows onto the desk, golden eyes full of satisfaction. Soul wants to curse - Kid wins again, and he played right into his skull-ringed hands. Fuck that guy, seriously.

"But of course, Soul. I'll send Liz and Patty out to find some information on the girl. Get started on the line, alright? I can leave Jacqueline in charge of base Layout so you have some more time." His voice softens just a little, and Soul is reminded of the days when he was deep in hell, drowning a little, and Kid pulled him, up, and told him that he didn't have to design full time anymore. He had other options, and Kid had just the one for him.

"I want the suit and gown set too, Soul!"

He's since become a manipulative asshole. More so than he was before, anyways.

* * *

Maka Albarn hasn't had a day off since god knows when. Freelancing with small, random fashion sites and magazines in order to pay off the part of her tuition that the scholarship doesn't cover takes up so much time, and studying does too. But Shibusen University is worth it, no matter what hours Maka has to clock in to make ends meet.

She was never really able to get into modeling earlier in her life, and instead focused on getting good grades - modeling was rarely lucrative, for so few ever made it big - but her dream of modeling never really died.

Of course, her major isn't fashion arts, but English, but her minor is.

"Just a few more pictures, Miss Albarn. Then you'll be free to go." The blonde woman behind the Canon camera smiles sweetly at her, and motions for the hair and makeup team to take her offstage to change.

Maka smiles back at her, his cheeks aching slightly from all the smiling she's done in today's shoot. "Alright, thank you ma'am." And she lets herself get swept away by the hustle and bustle of the hair and makeup team.

They shove her into a pair of black skinny jeans, and a faint powder-blue blouse-like shirt, with the shoulders and cuffs made of a white lace, and reach for the container of hairspray to style her already sprayed hair again. Maka tentatively rubs a stiff, ash-blonde strand between her fingers. She's never done a shoot where she'd been allowed to keep her natural, stick straight ash-blonde hair in pigtails. It isn't "fashion-forward," despite what magazines like Cosmopolitan might claim.

So she submits to the smooth hands bearing choking spritz of hairspray, and lets them comb and re-style her hair into a stiff wave.

But when it's all done, Maka can go home, lounge around in her sweats and a baggy shirt, and stay up until one to finish her homework, study, and still get in a workout.

"Can you give me a huge smile, Miss Albarn?"

Maka smiles, lets herself become a marionette for the camera, until all she sees are bright spots floating in her line of vision. This is her element. This is what she truly loves, despite being that nerdy girl with barely any chest, and a Spartan attitude towards studying.

"Alright, and that's that!" The camera woman begins to take her large camera apart as the director of EAT, a small magazine that features local designer's lines, comes forward, twins with blonde hair trailing behind her.

Maybe they're relatives of the director, or some of her co-workers.

"That was great! We'd definitely love to try and shoot with you again, Maka." Marie smiles, then gestures to the blonde girls. "These girls are Liz and Patty, and they work under a larger fashion magazine. They'd like a word with you, Maka."

Liz smiles cooly, her arms crossed beneath her bust, and Patty grins sweetly. A shiver, a crackle of cold electricity slides down Maka's spine. These girls are deadly - they could seriously damage her, some instinct tells her.

"Hello, Maka. Can we have a word?"

* * *

Maka follows Liz outside of the studio after changing, and Patty ounces after them, singing a nursery rhyme underneath her breath. They sit shoulder to shoulder with her on the stone steps. Cars rush by the busy streets of New York, and a light breeze tries but fails to ruffle the hairsprayed lump Maka's hair has become.

"So, we'd like to offer you a contract, Maka." Liz starts, smiling softly at Maka once more.

"With the EAT?" She asks, raking her hands through her stiff hair, trying to get her locks to fall straight so she can bind it in her twin tails again. Without them, she feels exposed, and Maka hates the feeling.

The February weather is half winter, half spring, and Maka shivers slightly in her black overcoat, and tight red jeans.

"You really don't recognize Liz and I, huh?" Patty chimes in as Liz flounders a little, and she giggles a little.

Her face goes slightly ruddy. "No. Sorry, should I?"

Liz waves her concerns off. "It doesn't quite matter, but let us re-introduce ourselves then." She gestures to her sister and herself. "My name is Elizabeth Thompson, and this is my sister, Patty." Disbelief begins to bubble in the pit of Maka's stomach. It couldn't be. "We're the heads of Makeup in-"

A rock settles in Maka's stomach. Her throat feels unusually dry, and she cuts Liz off. "-Vogue. I know."

Liz looks pleasantly surprised, as she smiles genially this time, and the rock in her stomach begins to erode. "Oh, so you do know who we are?"

Maka smiles a little. "Yes. I'm sorry, it slipped my mind for a little. It's nice to meet you."

"And you too," Liz replies, and Patty echoes her, bouncing like a child.

"I'm sorry if this sounds a little rude, but what does Vogue want with me?" She interjects, folding her hands over her drawn up knees, peering over at Liz and Patty, who share glances.

"Well," Liz confesses, flipping a loose strand of her golden blonde hair back. "One of our designers has taken notice of you, and wants you to be one of the models for his upcoming collection. He's pretty high profile, and well, Kid - our boss - sees no harm in it."

Patty cuts her sister off cheerily. "Well, you're super pretty, so I can see why Soul would want you to model for him! Even if your boobs are kinda tiny!"

Maka splutters at the comment made about her cup size, and her hand twitches around the space where her book would normally be. She continues to splutter out indignated replies as Patty giggles madly around her, and Liz shakes her head, scrolling through her iPhone. Then it registers in mind. "W-wait. Do-do you mean Soul Evans?" She's in shock. Soul Evans was a designer that came out of nowhere, the youngest son of the musically-renown Evans family. He had won Project Runway, and debuted in New York Fashion Week. He'd been featured in Vogue not long after that, and his designs had become wildly popular.

But three years afterwards, he'd become the Head of Layout and Fashion in Vogue, and only released exclusive lines once a year. He'd done the Spring/Summer season this year, and if he was also designing a Fall/Winter line...then something special had to be cooking. Maka almost couldn't believe it.

Liz smiled again, and nodded. "Yes, Maka. He wants you to be one of his models. And when Soul really wants something," she sighed, tilting her head backwards. "Oh, Soul gets it. The guy's persistent. I am not kidding." Then she grins, wide, sparkling teeth, and even brighter blue eyes. "But, I am super excited. I can't wait to do your makeup, Maka! Your eyes are perfect contrast for a Fall/Winter line, I swear." The girl gushes excitedly, clapping her hands together.

"Hold up a second," Maka holds up a hand. "Don't you not do makeup anymore?"

Liz shrugs. "Eh. Soul's lines are always cause for huge attention, so I generally do the makeup for the models in his lines. And his own."

"His own?" She's confused. "Why would you need to do his own-"

Liz nods slowly. "Yep. Soul sometimes models his own collections. Since the Fall/Winter collection he's releasing isn't the normal, run-of-the-mill, once a year bull he does, Soul's decided to model a few himself." The makeup artist grins impishly. "I forced my hand, and kept pressuring him. He didn't really decide himself."

"Oh. But, um, how long is this contract standing for?" She asks, finally combing her hair back to a semi-normalcy.

Liz types a few things into her phone. "Actually, a car should be coming now. If you come with us, we can have Kid explain everything to you."

"Alright," Maka agrees, and true to Liz's word, five minutes later, a sleek Mercedes-Benz pulls up by the curb, and Liz files them all in. Patty's cheerful chatter with the driver fills the air as Liz and Maka bond, talking in hushed tones.

* * *

Soul tips a drink back, and the burning sensation of the alcohol trickling down his throat is soothing. The slightly sweet tang of the brandy isn't nearly enough to set off a buzz in the back of his mind, but Soul is certain that when he gets down the rest of the bottle - which is currently resting in ice on his kitchen counter - that there'll be a nice buzz of static in his mind.

The designer can't remember when drinking started to become a sort of pleasure to him, but he sure as hell isn't going to become an alcoholic. That's just not cool. But if he really had to guess, he really started drinking towards the end of his full-time designing career. When his parents began to get on his case, and he just knew that they would try and control one of the only things he really enjoyed.

Soul sighs, and places his glass of brandy down on the side table next to his drawing table, and stares down at the dress designs he has penciled out. The gown itself is made of a silk underbody, with a chiffon petticoat, and the heart-shaped bodice fades into a silvery, snowflake patterned lace that trails down into sleeves that fit like a second skin. If he can remember correctly, the Fall/Winter season this year is surprisingly prime time for pastels, and more muted colors, amongst the other, normal, harsher colors. But nothing very punk. Or too extreme, if he wants to stand out this season. Crap.

It's not quite his forte, but Soul is certain that with that lavender cowl turtleneck he has sketched out, he can squeeze in a white leather jacket and maybe dark slacks. And heeled ankle boots if he can find a material that they'll work with. And the male side of the line will come easy enough. He doesn't have to go all out with intricate details and the like - he can darken the color hues a little, but not so much that they'll conflict with the female color scheme.

His red eyes are weary in the lamplight, and Soul reaches over for his glasses case, and thin black headband. He slouches over to the bathroom branching off from his drawing room, and pops his contacts off into the restorative fluid, sliding the light gray frames of his glasses on over his bright red eyes. The albino rubs his face, before wetting his palms, and rubbing the water over his tired face, and pushing his unruly white locks back with the thin black headband.

Back to the drawing board.

* * *

After four hours of sketching and throwing away ideas, and cringing at the bags underneath his eyes that he knows are going to form - jesus fuck, he'll probably have to wear concealer to work tomorrow - Soul finally has what he thinks is a good solid beginning for the partner to the woman's dress he has. The main centerpieces, the two sides of the coin, the yang to the dresses yin. All that.

The thing that Liz was making him model.

Jesus fuck, when was the last time Soul actually modeled? He'd actually been a model for Teen Vogue, going by the alias Eater, back when he was fifteen, and sort of neurotic. The designer could partially remember it - the hands bearing smooth globs of gel, the soft blush brushes against his cheekbones, the feeling of new clothing against his shaved arms. It had been fun, but Soul had eventually wanted to create the clothing those models wore.

Sighing - he'd done that a lot those past four hours - Soul pinned the design up on the corkboard with the swatches of fabric he'd dug up from the backroom of his penthouse apartment. The men's side of the design consisted of a clean cut suit jacket, stark black, with a pale, sea green lining on the inside, and a lining on the lapels, a high collared - almost brushing the jawline - button down with small, almost invisibly stitched white dot patterns, meant to emulate snowflakes, and a thin, dark tie. He had no exact idea as to what color the slacks would be, but he was leaning towards darker slacks, or tighter jean-like pants in the same shade as the inner coat of the blazer. Personally, he was leaning more towards the former, but most likely, he'd make both, and decide when the models were ready.

In the background, through the sound of darker classical music, his phone went off with a piano cover of Panic! At the Disco's This is Gospel.

"Hello?"

"Ah, Soul. You're still awake?" Kid's smooth baritone poured through his speakers, and Soul groaned, and rolled his eyes.

"Obviously, Kid. I fucking stay up all night and design the gown and suit duo first," he groaned, thumbing through a stack of fabric swatches, searching for a denim-like fabric that would work for the slacks of the suit/blazer outfit, and possibly some business casual ones. "You know that."

The editor laughed hoarsely, evidence of all-nighters showing through as well. "I thought I should tell you that Liz and Patty both came in ten minutes ago with your requested model, Soul. Mind coming down so she can see first hand what a nightmare you are?"

Soul snorted. "Alright, fine. Do you want me to measure her so I can tweak my designs to fit her?"

He could practically hear Kid sighing in relief. "Yes, that would be favorable, Soul. Do you still have your bike with you?"

"Of course, what you think I'd sell her?" Soul scoffed, "I'll be down in half an hour. Sure hope traffic isn't too bad at -" He squinted towards his analog clock. "Four am. Holy fuck."

There was a ruslting through the line, and Soul knew that Kid was probably sighing and rubbing his forehead. "Yes. Liz and Patty went through some detours to pick up Miss Albarn's things. She lives all the way in the Heights, and traffic is horrible from there to here. She lives a little too far away to commute reasonably, seeing she only uses the subway, so we'll have to discuss living arrangements."

"Alright, I'll see you soon, Kid."

"Right." And with a click, his boss hung up.

Groaning, Soul stooped over to his room to change.

Goddamnit, he liked wearing his sweats.

* * *

Vogue had beautiful offices. Wide windows, and blown up magazine covers, and sketches of famous designs by even more famous designers.

But sitting in the office of the senior editor and chief, and son of the owner of the Conde Nast Magazines, Maka was a little more than nervous. Not to mention it was four in the morning, and she was really, really tired.

Thank God, she didn't have classes today.

The editor and chief strode in, pocketing a black and white covered iPhone six in his suit jacket, and smiled genially at Maka. "Death the Kid. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Albarn." He stuck out a gloved hand.

Maka smiled back at him, shaking his proffered hand firmly. "It's a pleasure to meet you as well. You can call me Maka though. Miss Albarn was my mother's name."

Kid smiled this time, and moved to take a seat at his desk, which was perfectly symmetrical. As was his office. "Then you can call me Kid. I'm looking forward to working with you, Maka. I'm sorry for calling you here at such a late hour."

The blonde shrugged nonchalantly, and smoothed down one of her low-hanging ponytails. "No, it's alright, I don't really mind." She grinned. "It's an honor to be here, honestly."

Kid let out a low laugh, and lent back a little in his leather chair. "Alright." He reached over to grab a manilla file resting on his desk. Printed in neat, bright red block letters, was Maka's name. "So, from the file I have here, it says you're a scholarship student at Shibusen University?"

"Uh, partial scholarship. I model in my spare time to pay for the rest of my tuition, and extra costs. I also work part-time at a local bookstore," Maka offered, shrugging.

The bicolor-haired man looked further down the list. "It also says that your major is English? Why not your minor? Although," he added, tapping a finger on the file, "I do see that your minor is Fashion Arts?"

"My mother wouldn't let me just take Fashion Arts. And she was right in telling me that fashion is generally a very mercurial business. At least with an English degree underneath my belt, along with experience in fashion, I could apply for a job with a fashion magazine."

Kid set the file down, and stared at Maka for a little, his head cocked to the side, just so. "Your mother seems like a smart woman, Maka. I thought you said she was dead, though."

The blonde laughed into her palm. "No, my mother isn't dead. She and my father got divorced when I was a kid. She legally changed her last name back to Tanaka."

"Ah."

"Yeah..."

"Hey Kid?" Liz piped up, placing down two cups of coffee down onto the desk. "Soul just arrived at the front desk."

Kid nodded up at the elder Thompson. "Great. Tell him to come up."

* * *

 **a/n two: how was it?**

 **feel free to leave a review, favorite and follow as well!**

 **all errors are mine. please consider them nicely.**


	2. these boys can't slow me down

**a/n one: STILLL NOT FINISHED BLAZE IT REN I CAN MAKE IT...and i totally missed it. god, it's almost been a month, i'm so sorry guys! please enjoy this chapter, and the next one - which is already written, will be up next friday. if my brain decides to function normally.**

* * *

 **two: these boys, these boys can't slow me down**

* * *

Soul walked into the elevator once Fire, one of the two alternating twin receptionists tells him that Kid gave the go ahead. (The one time he went up without the go ahead, Kid and Liz were doing...things that Soul didn't want to talk about. Ever again. He got drunk that night, but some things are hard to forget.)

Liz greets him at the top floor, lounging in one of the black leather chaises littering the symmetrical waiting room. "He's in there with Maka."

"Alright," Soul mutters, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, and fixing the collar of his asymmetrical leather jacket he chose to wear to piss Kid off. "I'm going to go in."

"Soul!" Liz calls after him, and he turns back, to see her take a small sip from her flute of champagne. "Be polite to Maka, you ass. She's a nice girl."

"Of course," Soul quips, as he smiles toothily, sharp fang-like teeth gleaming faintly in the dim light. "I'm nothing if not a gentleman, Liz."

Liz snorts. "Yeah, fuck you. You can't fool me, you bag of dicks." Her rough native accent slips through, and Soul smirks.

"Yeah, you've got me. I'll play nice Liz, OK?"

She smiles, sisterly as always towards him, and pushes him a little towards the closed mahogany doors. "See you later, Soul!"

His last sight Soul sees before he enters is her taking another sip of bubbling, glittering champagne.

* * *

The creak of his dark wooden doors and the clack of Armani oxfords (Soul's an idiot that just pulls on the first pair of shoes he sees when there's a midnight call. Even if they happen to be $400 Armani oxfords.) on the floors alerts Kid to Soul's entry. The designer stands there in an asymmetrical black leather jacket, and tight black jeans. His hair is hidden underneath a red beanie, and his faintly gray glasses are still perched on the bridge of his nose.

Kid wants to shoot that leather jacket Soul always wears. Would it be too much for the shark-toothed asshole to wear something symmetrical for once? Seriously, fuck that guy.

But instead, he grits his teeth, and smiles, albeit, strained, towards Soul. "Take a seat, Soul."

The albino grins impishly, and sits himself into the chair next to Maka, who he greets with a small nod.

"Soul, this is Maka Albarn. She is the model you were asking about earlier."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Evans," Maka offers, and she smiles at him, with all her glittering, Colgate-enhanced teeth, unlike most models.

Soul grins, and it's just as he opens his mouth, that Kid understands what his rather sleep-deprived friend is about to say. "Nice to meet you too, tiny tits."

The next thing Kid knows, Soul is sporting a rather large lump on his head, and Maka is clutching one of the obscenely large books in her satchel. Her face is bright red, and she and Soul are arguing angrily.

"ENOUGH!" He shouts, slamming both palms onto his desk surface. "Stop arguing, you two! Soul, I can't believe you just said that. Maka, you really shouldn't have hit him. Not with a book that large, anyways."

Soul curses underneath his breath in French again, and shakily stands up from where the petite model knocked him down to the floor. "Putain de merde, you crazy bitch!"

Maka stares at him for a little, then shakes her head. "Fuck you too, asshole!"

"Stop it. I already told you this!" Kid bellows, and reaches over to push both the designer and model back into their seats."Alright, I'm going to explain your contract," he points to Maka. "And we're going to discuss where Maka is going to live for the time being. So shut up, and fucking listen to me."

There's an awkward silence that runs through the entire room, and Maka waits for Kid to elaborate further. Soul Evans is nothing like she expected him to be - he's rather crude, to be honest, but his sense of fashion is impeccable, and Maka has never seen anyone walk with such grace. Not even models.

"Maka, your contract with us will last until the final fashion show revealing the Fall/Winter lines. If your performance is desirable, we might consider forming a long term contract with you." Kid pulls out a few magazine clippings. "Obviously, you do have much potential. But, seeing as you live in the Heights, which is pretty far away from our offices, I'm going to have you move in with Soul."

Soul rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I saw this one coming, Kid, I did." He turns to Maka, and grins lopsidedly. "I have a spare room in my house. You can sleep there."

"Alright, that's good. Maka, Liz and Patty will drop off your stuff in the morning. Soul will assess how good your runway skills are tomorrow as well, and train you. You will need work, I can guarantee."

Kid glances wearily at them, as if expecting one to explode, or maybe them both, but when neither of them do, he waves them off. "I'll see you two tomorrow. Stay safe."

Soul rises from his chair, and nods. "Get some sleep then, Kid."

"You too, Soul. Have a good night, Maka."

"You too, Kid," Maka grins, and rushes to catch up with Soul as he bursts out the doors.

* * *

Downstairs, the designer turns to Maka, who is still bristling over the quips made at the expense of her chest size. (It's small, and she knows it. She doesn't need him to point it out, though!) "Hey, can you ride a motorcycle?"

"A what?" She squawks, eyes wide in the lighting. "Are you kidding me?"

Soul laughs a little, then shakes his head as he exits the Vogue offices. "Nope, guess not. Here, catch." He tosses her the spare helmet he keeps with his motorcycle, and hops on, kicking on the ignition. "Well? Get on."

"My God," Maka mutters underneath her breath. "I cannot fucking believe that I am doing this right now."

"Well," Soul quips, as he kicks off from the pavement, propelling the machine forwards as Maka shrieks, "Unless you wanna walk, or take the train to Vogue everyday, this is what you're gonna ride."

Maka swears unabashedly at the top of her lungs as Soul hugs a particularly sharp turn, as the ruby-eyed man lets out a wild whoop of laughter, slightly slurred with exhaustion and the slight dull of alcohol.

* * *

Maka wakes up the next morning, and her head is pounding. The ceiling above her is an off-white color, and the model keeps even breaths, trying to calm her pulse down. Last night's joyride on Soul's motorcycle may have well just taken seven years of her life, and Maka is still not pleased.

She takes another deep breath, and the scent of her own B.O. is enough to propel her out of bed and into the en suite bathroom her new roommate had shown her earlier that morning. Maka swears that she smells like a greasy bagel shop, and burnt rubber tires. It's disgusting, and she lathers an unusually generous amount of rose-lemon shampoo into her hair.

The ash blonde locks fall limply to her shoulder blades after she lets them go, bubbles washing away underneath the spray of the shower head. If Maka closes her eyes and really listens, she can hear the chords of Panic! At the Disco's Girls/Girls/Boys. She shrugs. Maka never really took Soul for a pop-alternative-rock sort of person, but she guesses it fits with his attitude. Or what she's seen of it, at least.

What does she know? Nothing, really, apparently.

Maka dances out from the bathroom, grabs her comb from her duffel bag, and shuts the bathroom door behind her, but the electronic alternative song still bleeds, muffled, through the door.

Small soap bubbles pop behind her on dark wooden floors, and the baseline of the music vibrates the entire apartment lightly.

* * *

Soul realizes that he may or may not have been a huge dick to Maka earlier that morning, and he has to apologize.

Blindly twitching his hand around his work desk for the remote to the iHome speakers his phone is hooked up in, Soul curses softly as he knocks his open water bottle open, water puddling on the dark wooded floors.

"You might want to clean that up," a feminine voice rings out from behind him, and Soul whirls around, coming face to face with Maka, noses nearly touching.

"Wow. Well, good morning to you too, partner," he drawls softly, taking a few tissues from the cylindrical tissue holder he keeps on his desk. Crouching down, the white-haired designer mops the water off from the floor. They get soggy quickly, and soon, Maka is sprawled on the floor beside him, silently handing him another wad of tissues to clean up the rest of the drink.

"So, how did you manage to get this much water on the floor?" She asks, and Soul thinks she might even be slightly amused. "Here." Maka throws a few more tissues atop the sort-of-dry puddle, and as Soul stands up, he smashes his socked foot atop them. They stick to the wet patch, and he extends a hand to help the model off of the floor.

"Thanks a lot, Maka," Soul replies, as he swerves around her to exit the workroom. He's still in the sweats he slept in, and he also needs a shower. He smells like a homeless person, and since he has to check in with Kid later today, he'd better cover up those bags underneath his eyes. "Stay in the workroom, 'right?" He dashes back into his room - the too-large master suite - and slams the door shut behind him.

Soul wants a shower.

* * *

After being slightly miffed at being practically ordered to stay put in the darkened workroom, Maka decides to sit atop the small leather chaise by the tall windows that rise on the left of Soul's expansive study. It's actually quite beautiful, the walls a forest green, and the floors a deep pine-wood like color. Just like the rest of the penthouse.

Soul's desk is pushed up against the northernmost wall, and a silver desk lamp juts above the wood desk, clipped onto the side. A large drawing board takes up most of the desk, and an enormous corkboard hangs above the desk, swatches of fabric pinned to it, alongside elaborately sketched designs with messily scrawled footnotes.

A large, metal bookcase is pushed up next to the door, and Maka thinks that she sees all four editions of B. Ichi. Her friend Hiro, from back in Nevada, who used to read the manga. She doesn't understand why Hiro loved it so much - she thought it was odd - but to each their own, she supposes.

"Huh. Didn't think you'd actually listen," Soul drawls from behind her. "You know, you didn't actually have to stay put."

Maka raises an ash-blonde eyebrow, her eyes poisonous green. "Well, it didn't sound like you were kidding."

He gives a lazy snort-laugh, and chucks the damp towel around his neck onto the chair next to the chaise. "Yeah, I guess not." Striding over to his desk, Soul rifles around for something in one of the drawers, then motions for Maka to stand up.

"Here. I'll give you a small lesson, as well as take your measurements."

Maka tilts her head to the side a little, and Soul lets out a small noise of discontent. "What?" She asks, a little snappish, a little annoyed. Because she knows that she isn't exactly America's Next Top Model material, but it's still nerve-wracking.

"Jesus fuck, Maka," Soul cries, as he runs a slender hand through his white hair. "First thing first, you're a model. Put your shoulders back. This is a fitting, not a slave auction, for god's sake."

She has to stifle a small snort of laughter as Soul says that, and straightens her spine, throwing her shoulders back. He sounds every bit like how the magazines describe him right then, a perfect cocktail of dry humor, sass, and grumpy sarcasm.

"Oh holy motherfuck," Soul curses throwing his hands into the air, and falling dramatically - it's mostly for show, Maka can tell - on to his spinning desk chair. "We have so much work to do, it's a little sad, but you know what? I'm just going to take your measurements first. Stand ramrod straight, like you're getting your height measured in a doctor's office."

She listens to him, and tries not to wriggle around and squirm and Soul measures her height, hip width, and wingspan. Maka thinks that he's actually not half the ass he proved himself to be -

"Wow. You really do have super tiny tits." He's marking down her bust size on the notebook page of measurements he's been scrawling down since he began taking her measurements.

As he laughs a little as he continues to write down measurements, and reaches for a calculator sitting on his desk.

Maka grits her teeth and clenches her fists at her sides. Next to her, on the coffee table, lies a large book of sewing patterns and different types of fabrics and color schemes. She reaches for it with a twitching hand and -

"-OW! What the fuck?!" Soul grips his head, and furiously rubs at the lump forming on it. "What the hell, Maka?"

Maka blusters, her face bright red. "Stop talking about my tits, god, Soul!"

Letting out another muffled curse, the designer goes back to his calculations, and scrawls down the last of them, as Maka begins to skim through the book she'd hit Soul with.

"Done," he announces, standing up. "C'mon, Maka. Let's get going."

"Huh? Wait, where are we going?"

Soul stops in the foyer, stooping down to pull on a ratty and worn pair of Vans, and gives her a look. "To Vogue offices, of course. You need so much work, I'm not even that sure where to begin. We'll get Tsubaki to lend a hand."

Maka barely has enough time to slip her feet into her raggedy Toms before Soul drags her out the door, and down the stairs.

(When he tells Maka to hop onto his motorcycle, it's Maka's turn to give him the look. She's not getting on that thing again. Not today. Grudgingly, Soul says that they'll take the subway.

She thinks it's because he's starting to learn that she may or may not be inclined to beating him over the head with a particularly large book when he's being particularly unreasonable.)

* * *

"Alright," Soul says, sitting criss-cross on the catwalk, perpendicular from Maka. "Tsubaki will be able to best help you when it comes to walking down a catwalk like a female model, but as for the basics, I think I can help to some extent."

Maka cards a few fingers through her ash-blonde pigtails, fixing a few small knots in them. "I didn't know you were a model, Soul," she offers, taking the hand he extends down to help her up.

The albino shrugs. "I modeled for Teen Vogue a bit back in high school. I ended up doing a few runway shows as a sub model during Fashion Week. It was...interesting, but I prefer designing to modeling anyways."

The blonde grins a little, and slides off of the catwalk, taking a seat on one of the spare fold-up chairs left in the large atrium where the practice catwalk stood. "Do you need music?"

Rolling his eyes, Soul slides his iPhone out of his jean pocket, unlocks it, and tosses it to Maka, who catches it with deft fingers. "Sure, why not. Let's put on embarrassing, stereotypical runway music. The playlist should be labeled 'runway music.'"

"I can't believe you have a playlist for stereotypical runway music, Soul," she teases, speaking through the microphone of the soundbooth, her voice echoing throughout the catwalk atrium. "I didn't take you for the sort of person who liked to listen to Adam Lambert and Lady Gaga."

Soul scowls, and cups his hands around his mouth. "Jesus, just put the playlist on already, Maka. And I was sixteen, shut up!"

She smiles, laughing softly all the while, and soon For Your Entertainment blares through the speakers, and Soul goes behind the black curtain.

Maka looks down at the soundboard while Soul begins to walk down to the curtain, and feels the burning temptation to fiddle with the buttons, because she did work in the soundbooth for her high school play, as the manager. But she's supposed to be paying attention to Soul, so she exits the soundbooth, and sits back in that self-same fold-up chair.

Soul begins to walk down the runway, his asymmetrical leather jacket held over one of his shoulders. His strides are long, and he carries himself well. His hips don't swing like female catwalk models often swing their own, but he walks with confidence, and tilts his chin upwards slightly at the end of the catwalk, and pivots to the left, and continues until he's backstage.

Leaning back into her chair, Maka understands why Soul made a great model. He sort of leaks confidence on the catwalk, and she would be lying if she said that she wasn't even a little entranced by it.

"Hey," Soul shouts from the curtain. "Maka, shut the music off."

"What?"

"Shut the goddamn music off!"

Oh. Nodding, Maka pushes herself off of the chair, and unplugs Soul's phone from the audio jack.

"Thanks," Soul mutters, shutting it off and tucking it back into his pocket. "Anyways, Tsubaki should be here soon, and I have a meeting with Kid soon." He shrugs his jacket back on, and Maka notes that it contrasts well with the orange of his t-shirt, which reads Pianoman in thin, black block letters. "Will you be fine on your own?"

She scowls at his question. She's practically the same age as him - probably older than him mentally - and is also not that shorter than him. "I'll be fine, thanks. You should get going though. Kid's office is on the top floor, right?"

Soul checks his watch, and curses in French. "Crap, you're right. I've got to go. Thanks Maka."

He dashes out of the atrium, and Maka shakes her head, exasperatedly as he does.

"What a ditz," she murmurs, and settles into the chair, turning her phone on. With luck, she'll be able to study a bit while waiting for Tsubaki - whoever she is.

But sadly enough, as soon as the door shuts, it opens again, and an oriental woman strides in, her long black hair thrown over her shoulder in a fishtail. She spots Maka, and makes her way over, smiling gently.

"Hello," she offers, extending a hand as Maka stands up, tucking her phone away. "You must be Maka Albarn. I'm Tsubaki Nakatsukasa."

She's gorgeous, Maka dimly realizes, but reaches out to shake Tsubaki's offered hand. "Oh, um, yes. I'm Maka. It's nice to meet you, Tsubaki."

Tsubaki smiles wider, and hops onto the catwalk, motioning for Maka to follow her. "Well, let's get started, okay?" Her tone is still gentle, and she helps Maka to hop onto the stage.

Maka smiles back, and decides that Tsubaki is decidedly much nicer than Soul.

* * *

 **a/n two: was it good? did it suck? please let me know!**

 _ **as for soul and maka's lack of animosity -**_ **both of them met a four am, and i'm pretty sure most people aren't all that sane at four am. couple that with the fact that maka is _not_ a night owl, and soul is just a _little_ drunk (and shouldn't be driving, bad soul) arguments are bound to happen. not to say that they're all of a sudden bffs, but they get along better than the night before.**

 **all errors are my own. please consider them kindly.**


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